


Those Summer Nights

by f-ing-ruthless-baz (f_ing_ruthless_baz)



Series: Carry On Ficlets [13]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Nostalgia, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:29:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25696570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_ing_ruthless_baz/pseuds/f-ing-ruthless-baz
Summary: “Here,” Simon says to me, once we’ve settled in and made sure none of the roof shingles are about to give way beneath us. He hands me a napkin-wrapped lump, same as the one he holds in his other hand.“Cheers,” I say when I unwrap it. A sour-cherry scone he pilfered from the kitchen earlier, no doubt. I wouldn’t be surprised if these scones are the thing he misses most during the rest of the year.I take a bite into it. I think the thing I miss the most during the year is Simon.It's the last night at Camp Watford, and Baz isn't ready to say goodbye to Simon, his summertime friend.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Ficlets [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1453180
Comments: 10
Kudos: 171





	Those Summer Nights

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a prompt request by nightimedreamersghost: _Camp!Au + Friends to lovers + “it’s just so hard not to fall in love with you.”_
> 
> I wasn't 100% sure what Camp!AU meant, so I interpreted it as summer camp. I've never been to summer camp, and the only summer camp movie I've ever seen is _Wet Hot American Summer_ , so I was kind of flying without a compass here. I had to keep it pretty vague. 😅

The last day at Camp Watford is always the most hectic. Kids are restless, getting in one last swim in the lake or trying one last time to find those rumoured secret paths in the Wavering Wood that don’t actually exist. The other camp leaders and I tend to have our hands full trying to wrangle them all in for the final night around the campfire, since most of the older campers would rather sneak up to the Wavering Wood and smoke, and the younger ones are hyped up from eating sugar all day.

I couldn’t really be arsed to bother dealing with it, this year.

Instead, Simon and I slip away from the festivities and climb onto the roof of the Mummers Building. No one’s supposed to be up here, technically, but everyone’s too busy at the campfire to notice.

“Here,” Simon says to me, once we’ve settled in and made sure none of the roof shingles are about to give way beneath us. He hands me a napkin-wrapped lump, same as the one he holds in his other hand.

“Cheers,” I say when I unwrap it. A sour-cherry scone he pilfered from the kitchen earlier, no doubt. I wouldn’t be surprised if these scones are the thing he misses most during the rest of the year.

I take a bite into it. I think the thing I miss the most during the year is Simon.

The first time I came to Camp Watford, it was the summer after I’d turned eleven. My dad had remarried the year before, and he and Daphne had just had a baby—the first of many. Seems having a newborn and a moody preteen in the house at the same time was too much for them to handle, so they sent me to summer camp, despite my protests.

Simon was also new to Camp Watford that year. The camp director had just started a program to sponsor at-risk youths so they could attend. Simon slept in the bunk above mine, and I hated him.

I insulted him every chance I got. I picked fights with him and got sent to the director’s office with him, more times than I can count. And after camp ended that year, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

I begged my parents to send me back the next summer.

I suppose he’s just been part of my life ever since. My summer life, at least.

We talk a little during the year, online, but it’s not the same. In the summer, he’s my best friend. In the summer, he’s always there for me.

Two summers ago, he was the first person I came out to. Three summers ago, he was the one I vented to about how the twins were born a week before my birthday and completely overshadowed it. Four summers ago, he was the one who helped me sneak out of the cabin so I could clean up after a particularly embarrassing wet dream. (I didn’t tell him the dream was about him, though.)

“Wha’ ‘r’ ‘ou finkin’ abou’?” he says with his mouth full of partially-masticated scone. A crumb flies out and lands on my cheek. I brush it off with a laugh.

“Oh, just how it’s so hard not to fall in love with you when you spray your food like that,” I say mockingly, leaning back on one hand.

“Shu’ ub.” He jabs an elbow into my side, not hard enough to hurt me. He finishes chewing and swallows, but he doesn’t say anything else. He’s not even looking at me.

I worry that my joke was too close to the truth, and he knows it. I shift forward and tuck my knees up in front of me. I wish I could undo the past thirty seconds.

“Can I ask you something?” he finally says, though he’s still looking away, down towards the campfire.

“Of course,” I tell him. I’m trying to remain calm, though my heartbeat is rising to my ears. He doesn’t usually ask if he can ask me something; he just asks me something.

He wraps his arms around his knees and looks over at me. “Why’ve you never had a boyfriend?”

I can practically taste the blood rushing to my face in embarrassment. “I—I don’t know,” I say. “I just… I haven’t found anyone who interested me, I suppose.”

It’s dark, this far away from the fire, but in the moonlight I can see him frown.

“Really?” he asks. “What about Gareth? Or Rhys?” I suppose Simon is trying to play matchmaker for the camp leaders, now.

“I—You don’t even know if they’re gay,” I reply. As if that’s the only issue.

“I know Rhys is for sure,” he says casually. “He’s pretty cute, isn’t he?”

I don’t ask him how he _knows for sure_ , because I don’t think I’d like the answer. And he’s never given any indication before that he can tell whether or not a guy is _cute_. The fact that he’s not wrong is all the more confusing.

“That—That’s irrelevant,” I say, raking my hair back nervously. “I’m not going to date someone from _camp_.”

“Why not?” Simon’s tone is painfully sincere.

“Look how well it worked for you and Agatha,” I say with a vague wave of my hand. “Broke up less than a month after summer was over.”

He looks down at the half a scone in his hand. “There were other issues, there,” he says. “I’m sure you could make it work long distance with someone during the year, if you wanted to.”

“It’s too late anyway,” I say, practically mumbling. “It’s the last night and—”

“And…?”

I stare down at the campfire with my jaw tensed. “And I’m not coming back next year, anyway.”

“You’re—Why not?” Simon asks, whipping his head around to look at me again.

“I’ll be busy next summer,” I explain, guilt twisting in my stomach. “Getting ready for uni and all. It doesn’t really make sense to come back.”

“But I—Why didn’t you tell me?” He looks hurt, and the guilt in my stomach condenses into a leaden weight.

“I didn’t want—” I begin, but I don’t know how to end that sentence. _I didn’t want to admit it_ , I think. _I didn’t want to say goodbye._

I don’t have to finish. He nods anyway, like he understands.

“We’ll… We’ll still chat, right?” he says. “You’ll text me when—Well, you’ll text me, yeah?”

“Of course.” My voices catches a little in my throat. “Simon…”

He turns his head away and chuckles dryly. “It’s too bad you won’t date someone from camp, huh?”

“I—” It takes a moment for his words to register. “What do you—”

“Baz, do you think—” he says, pausing to choose his words. He does this when he’s trying to say something important. It used to annoy me to no end, but I’ve grown to find it endearing. “If we’d met, like, out _there_ ,” he says, lifting his head and stretching his hand with the scone out towards the vastness in front of us, over the tops of the buildings and past the trees, “do you think we’d have had a chance to—I mean, would you have wanted…” He turns to me again and lets his other hand rest on the rooftop between our seats. “… _Us_?”

My throat feels dry, as if I’d just shoved the rest of my scone in my mouth, and I don’t trust myself to say anything. I simply nod.

I don’t know if it’s the answer he wanted, because he frowns at that, too.

“Couldn’t we just…” he says, dropping his gaze to his hand on the shingles. “I mean, we could video chat and visit each other and—”

“Simon,” I interrupt him. “Are you saying you… You want…”

His eyes meet mine again. “ _Us_?” he says. “Yeah. Maybe. If you also wanted…”

“Yes,” I reply. I swallow when he looks down at my lips. I hadn’t noticed how far he was leaning towards me. Or how far I was leaning towards him.

I let him close the distance between us; he seems to have a better idea what he’s doing, in this department.

Not my first kiss, but certainly _our_ first kiss. Ideally not our last.

I don’t fully understand, but I don’t question it, not yet.

He turns his whole body towards me and drops his scone so he can push his hand into my hair, and the scone rolls right off the roof and into the bushes below. It makes me laugh—I feel lightheaded—and he smiles against my lips.

I manage to hold onto my scone while holding the back of his head with my other hand. His curls are soft and slightly grown out from the summer, and I can feel one of the moles on the back of his neck. It makes me want to find the rest of them.

When I pull back, my breathing is heavy, but so is his, so it’s less embarrassing. Still, I have questions.

“I—I didn’t know you were…” I say, while he holds my head to keep me from getting very far. I let the word hang invisibly in the air. It feels like saying it would break the spell.

He shakes his head but doesn’t let go. “I don’t—It doesn’t matter,” he says. “I want this. _Us_.”

“But—” I don’t know why I’m arguing about this. “ _Why_?”

He smiles and curls his fingers against the back of my head. “ _It’s just so hard not to fall in love with you_ ,” he says playfully, and kisses me again before I can respond.

I don’t know how long we spend like that, making out on the roof. All I know is the festivities at the campfire are dying down and my lips are sore and my chest is full of hope and fear and excitement.

“Baz,” Simon says, nestling his head against my shoulder.

I press my face into his curls. “Yes?”

“Are you gonna eat the rest of your scone?”


End file.
